Day: February 21, 2017

Your pain a sacred catalyst for growth

Give sorrow words,  to understand  this grief
All losses make a mighty river flow
Contribute   your vision to our need.

 

Your tears will raise from death the holy seeds
Your pain a  sacred catalyst  for growth
Give sorrow words,  to understand this grief

Nothing shall be wasted,not a leaf.
I know we’ll take and keep a sacred oath
Contribute   your vision to our need.

The words when chosen bring  us to relief
As a person lives so shall they sow.
Give your sorrow words,  to understand all grief

Inside our heads and guts, our feeling seethe
Love  is here yet all of us will die
Contribute   your vision to our need.

Nothing in this poetry’s a lie.
Every human soul will say,goodbye.
Give sorrow words,  to satisfy  your grief
Contribute   your visions to our needs.

I talk about the weather like a fool

When I cannot tell you how I feel
When I want to see you ,not  to speak,
I talk about the weather like a  fool

Sometimes when I’m tired I feel unreal
Or life seems lost and  meaning seems to leak
Then I  can not  tell you how I feel.

Some months have their winds to make misrule
Others  throttle  throats and freeze the cheeks
I talk about the weather ,as its cool.

We must keep moving or our blood congeals
So sheep must  on moorland  frosty, bleak
I don’t want to  lie for  life is real

When winter mocks our age I find it cruel
Yet you are old and for amusement look
I talk about  the sunshine like a  fool

Oh,happy   snowfalls keeping us from school
As on the ice we tumbled with loud shrieks
When I  cannor   tell you how I feel
The weather  stands for  what  I   have concealed

The underpinnings now are foundering

He is dead,I am not self deceived.
He smiled,I smiled, and then  he closed his eyes
There’s the coffin with its boundaries

How does death affect the ones bereaved?
Some despair  some speak in fatal lies
He is dead,I am not self deceived.

My underpinnings now are foundering
I cannot help myself ,though I will try
There’s the coffin with its boundaries

He’s gone,he’s gone and cannot be retrieved.
I knew I had to  watch him on his way
He is dead, I will not sense deceive.

What is my world when he is not perceived?
I will  lose my voice unless I pray
The wooden coffin brings me to my knees

To God’s own grace, I open to receive
He’s the green force underneath  our play
My lover’s dead, I will not sense deceive.

Tomorrow and tomorrow I shall pay
As in the enriched ground his form will lie
He is dead,I am not self deceived.
Here’s  his coffin with  closed boundaries

What will be a flower,what a mere weed?

Unshed tears will make our innards bleed
The agony disguised  will find its way,
Destroy our life and kill the growing seed

On this topic many’ ve disagreed
Stiff upper lips and  eyes that look like prey
The unshed tears will make  their innards bleed

We must surely ask for what we need
Not tomorrow, we must act today
Protect our life and all  its growing seeds

What will be a flower,what a mere weed?
We must use our wisdom to convey
The unshed tears  that make our innards bleed

Only our own soul knows all our needs
And once we seek, we must not  more delay
Employ our life and help the growing seed

Seek the owl and not the donkey’s bray
What it tells you none but you can say
For unshed tears will make our innards bleed
Destroy our life and kill the growing seed

No remedy exists for hidden grief

No remedy exists for hidden grief
A blank face and a voice that does not speak
Expression  is the route to our relief

The caterpillar gnaws the new green leaf
And actions are the place where meaning leaks
No remedy exists for hidden grief

Emotions are all clouded and bereft
We look around and all the world seems bleak
Expression  is the pathway to relief

Song or dance or paint or words can leave
A form wherein our agony is Greek
No remedy exists for hidden grief

We trust the dark,continue to believe
Though all we hear at first are our own shrieks
Expression  is the way to  true relief.

The heart and soul   are patient and are meek.
For the unknown God,  they darkness seek
No remedy exists for hidden grief
Expression   gives us comfort and relief

Quotations for the bereaved

 

 

flowers on monday 16th January 2012 - Glimpses between the cracks:Alice's Looking Glasshttp://www.amemorytree.co.nz/message_library.php

 

  • Tears water our growth. – Shakespeare
  • There are times when there are too few words left to heal us, when what we wish for is to be carried, when all we have left is the hope that tomorrow will be a more gentle place to land than today.
  • If you’re going through hell, keep going. – Churchill
  • Courage is being afraid but going on anyhow. – Dan Rather
  • You can clutch the past so tightly to your chest that it leaves your arms too full to embrace the future. – Jan Glidewell
  • Grief and sadness knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can and common sufferings are far stronger than common joys. – Alphonse de Lamartine
  • Tearless grief bleeds inwardly. – Christian Bovee
  • There is no grief like the grief that does not speak. – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  • He that conceals his grief finds no remedy for it. – Turkish Proverb
  • Tears are the silent language of grief. – Voltaire
  • Grief makes one hour ten. – Shakespeare
  • Bereavement unravels like a piece of cloth, the fabric of your life over time you will be able to reweave your piece of cloth, but the cloth will have a new pattern. – Unknown
  • Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.  – Irish Headstone
  • Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.  – Shakespeare
  • Man, when he does not grieve, hardly exists – Antonio Porchia
  • Sorrow makes us all children again – destroys all differences of intellect.  The wisest know nothing  – Ralph Waldo Emerson
  • Time is a physician that heals every grief.  – Diphilus

For the love of avocados

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  • CONTENT
    Discover this poem’s context and related poetry.
For the Love of Avocados

BY DIANE LOCKWARD
I sent him from home hardly more than a child.
Years later, he came back loving avocados.
In the distant kitchen where he’d flipped burgers
and tossed salads, he’d mastered how to prepare
the pear-shaped fruit. He took a knife and plied
his way into the thick skin with a bravado
and gentleness I’d never seen in him. He nudged
the halves apart, grabbed a teaspoon and carefully
eased out the heart, holding it as if it were fragile.
He took one half, then the other of the armadillo-
hided fruit and slid his spoon where flesh edged
against skin, working it under and around, sparing
the edible pulp. An artist working at an easel,
he filled the center holes with chopped tomatoes.
The broken pieces, made whole again, merged
into two reconstructed hearts, a delicate and rare
surgery. My boy who’d gone away angry and wild
had somehow learned how to unclose
what had once been shut tight, how to urge
out the stony heart and handle it with care.
Beneath the rind he’d grown as tender and mild
as that avocado, its rubies nestled in peridot,
our forks slipping into the buttery texture
of unfamiliar joy, two halves of what we shared.